


A Herculean Effort

by sssnakelady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hercules (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hercules (1997) Fusion, Denial of Feelings, Flower Language, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Romance, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssnakelady/pseuds/sssnakelady
Summary: “If there’s a prize for rotten judgement.” Crowley mutters, twirling the gifted flower between his fingers.Asphodelos. The flower of the underworld.He wonders if Aziraphale had even thought of that, handing him such a thing. Such a symbol.I will remember you beyond the grave. Beyond this life. Into eternity.All flowers hold meaning and Crowley knows the weight of each one. Their worth in this world and the next. He’d been a gardener once. A grower of life and love. He’d given his heart away freely, naive to the truth that some humans were not so ready to bloom as his flowers. Not so full and sweet as his apples.Some sought only to tread on those reaching blindly for the sun.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	A Herculean Effort

**Author's Note:**

> https://twitter.com/naniiebim/status/1197540141595873281?s=20  
> I saw this beautiful drawing by the lovely naniiebim and just had to write a little something for it!
> 
> This whole AU concept just leaves me tickled pink. I hope you enjoy! <3

“If there’s a prize for rotten judgement.” Crowley mutters, twirling the gifted flower between his fingers. 

_ Asphodelos _ . The flower of the underworld. 

He wonders if Aziraphale had even thought of that, handing him such a thing. Such a symbol. 

_ I will remember you beyond the grave. Beyond this life. Into eternity _ . 

All flowers hold meaning and Crowley knows the weight of each one. Their worth in this world and the next. He’d been a gardener once. A grower of life and love. He’d given his heart away freely, naive to the truth that some humans were not so ready to bloom as his flowers. Not so full and sweet as his apples. 

Some sought only to tread on those reaching blindly for the sun. 

There are tragedies that break us. Circumstances that harden us. Force us to see the truth of the world. Where some stand boldly to life’s turmoil, others curl in close. Wrap themselves tight around their emotions, strangling them one by one as a snake with its prey. 

Crowley has become this serpent. Wears the charm of one in his hair - in a silver brooch. On the clasp of well worn shoes. But the tightest coils hide beneath his chest, constricting his heart. Turning honeyed words into a bitter mead where his joyful youth had been strangled from him. 

Love is a gift. But love can also be a conqueror. 

Crowley sits on the marble uprise about the fountain, frowns down at the perennial caught between his fingers. “Well, I guess I’ve already won that.” 

_ No man is worth the aggravation.  _ He reminds himself, recalling the ache of betrayal. 

He stands abruptly again, paces a step in one direction and then two in the other before tossing the flower over his shoulder. Casting its intent and meaning away as to be ancient history. 

“Been there. Done that.” Crowley says aloud as if this will make him solid in his conviction on the matter. 

Only five steps forward and he’s slowing, fretting. There’s a voice that calls out sometimes. That springs up from the pits of him he’s left burning. Hushed and small, but persistently there. He’d call it a  _ conscience _ if he thought he had one anymore - but sometimes it reminds him of a muse. Reminds him how he’d once been a great thinker, an infinite dreamer. 

_Who do you think you’re kidding? He’s the earth and heaven to you._ _Why try to keep it hidden?_

Crowley sneers, shakes his head, does an immediate spin circle in place as he catches himself trying to double back. He can conceal this. It doesn’t matter how he feels. Who he’s thinking of. 

“No chance. There’s no way. I won’t say it.” He argues with the air, casting a look over his shoulder, forcibly keeping his eyes from landing just so on this gift given, left equally aching on the ground. 

_ But you swoon and you sigh. Why deny it? _

“Because it’s too cliche.” He snaps out and deliberately strides forward, further into the garden of vines and gaudy statues. 

There is the essence of love caught in a dancing pair, immortalized in stone. He remembers movement like this. Two bodies falling into one another, swept up in fluid motion. He imagines Aziraphale would miss key steps, make them fumble, but would catch him with solid surety. Wrap around him with arms and laughter too. Crowley’s frown dips into a scowl now and he rushes past. 

“You’d think my heart had learned its lesson. It only feels good when you start out.” He recalls, curling his arms around himself, trying to hide from the chill that has nothing to do with the weather. 

His head is screaming. The sure signs of a headache forming. He needs to get a grip on himself. The only thing awaiting him at the end of this is to cry his heart out. 

_ Oh, but if you keep on denying who you are and how you feel. Who would buy it? Your lies? You hit the ceiling. Could just face it like a grown up. About time you own up to it, isn’t it? How bad you’ve got it.  _

He hates this incessant voice in his head. This  _ muse _ that cries out from his heart. It’s never been so loud as it is now and he snarls in frustration, slinking onward. All the statues around him now boast romance, making him desperate to flee. Make him rush through, hopping over raised stones at the center of a pool of water. Not so much as looking down. Refusing to see the wreck of his reflection there. 

He staggers on the last stride, snatches onto the closest surface. It’s a hand. Cold but sculpted to perfection as he looks up. Sees the face of a dream staring back down at him. Just as he’d thought, always there to catch him when he fell. He presses the length of his body closer, envisions the warmth of Aziraphale pressed against every inch of his chilled skin. Lets it work loose the coils around his heart like a snake in the morning sun. 

He wrenches away the moment he realizes what he’s doing. What he’ll be giving up. This scene won’t play. Not ever. No giving in. No love lost grins. No hearts doing flips. It’s all way off base, he won’t say it. 

He curls his hands into his hair, musses it a bit, makes the serpent ornament sit lopsided. “Arrgh. Get off my case! I won’t say it!” He snarls, as if he can talk the emotions swelling up beneath his ribs back down. 

_ You don’t have to be so proud _ .  _ It’s okay. _

He’s stopped walking, stopped fretting about the garden and has landed back precisely where he’d started. Full circle. The Ouroboros. There is a delicate flower on the ground just before him, teasing his toes with its fragrant petals. He slides down, sits upon the ground with a weak  _ plop  _ and lifts the declaration into his fingers once more. Presses it to his nose. Inhales the sweet scent of the flower and the lingering hint of Aziraphale there too. His heart gallops on beyond his control. 

At least out loud he won’t say it. 

_ I'm in love.  _


End file.
